From the memoir: Poet Akhtarul Iman on the conflict between Urdu writers’ groups in India

The Hyderabad Urdu Conference of 1944 was held on a grand scale. It was dominated by the Progressives, who were its driving force. I will not go into the various resolutions passed there, except for one – directed against the Halqa-e Arbab-e Zauq, of which Meeraji was one of the founders.

Writers of that time had split themselves into two groups: one aligned with the Halqa, and the other with the Progressives. As I have said earlier, the Progressives valued only those writings that reflected some aspect of socialist doctrine. The Halqa, on the other hand, judged a piece of writing purely on its literary merit. Each year, they published a selection of Urdu poetry that included poems by both Josh and Shad Aarfi, not discriminating between Progressive and non-Progressive poets. At the conference, however, a resolution was passed declaring the writings of Halqa-affiliated writers to be regressive.

The main reason for this stance of the Progressives was their fear – a fear that still afflicts some of them. They wanted a monopoly over literature. In their view, no writing was worthy of consideration without their seal of approval. But this ambition failed. All the good and trustworthy writers eventually left the Progressive fold, leaving only second- and third-rate writers under its banner. In the end, the Progressives lost both influence and respect.

The other reason for their loss of prestige was that the writers who called themselves Progressives were not entirely honest. They used communist doctrine to advance their own standing. Ignoring writers of real merit, they began promoting people who would not have been considered good even by the standards of journalism. This was done simply to swell their ranks. Praise for Russian leaders and their achievements became the backbone of their writing, even though the Russians did not think very highly of anyone else’s literature. They promoted only their own writers, and by treating outsiders to lavish meals and vodka, they used them merely as tools for their own publicity.

At the Afro-Asian Writers’ Conference held in Beirut in 1967, I participated along with Mulk Raj Anand, Harivansh Rai Bachchan and Sajjad Zaheer. There, I saw that the Russian writers did not treat writers from other countries as equals. They had reserved seats for themselves and would not allow anyone else to sit on them. No poetry was recited except that of a single Russian poet; his poems were translated into Arabic and English and distributed to all participants. I did not like the submissive behaviour of my fellow Indian delegates.

The main purpose of the conference was to draw attention to the plight of the Palestinians. After taking us around Beirut, the organisers brought us to Damascus and to the refugee camps. Another requirement of the conference was that delegates from each country had to present a report on the development of their national literature. Mulk Raj Anand and Sajjad Zaheer placed the responsibility of writing the Indian report on Bachchan’s shoulders. That report did no justice to Indian literature, nor did it express any solidarity with the Palestinians. Delegates from other countries – especially those from the Arab world – became distrustful of India.

When we returned to our hotel, we tried to analyse the situation and figure out where we had gone wrong. Everyone offered an opinion except me. Banne Bhai asked me to say something. I said, “Banne Bhai, if a particular doctrine is used while representing the country, then neither the country nor the doctrine gain anything.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Bachchan is a man of Hindi literature. It is not surprising that he does not know much about new trends in Urdu literature. But you are a person of Urdu literature. You never talk about anyone except the Progressives. It is not as if you don’t know the names of Manto, Bedi, Rashed or Meeraji, yet you never mention them. How can you represent our literature?”

No one was happy with my outburst.

On that 1967 visit, the sheikhs of Beirut entertained us with lavish feasts, and we also saw the historic buildings of Damascus when we went to that city. A few days later, we set off on a longer tour that took us through Moscow, Leningrad, London, Paris and Cairo – journeys I shall return to later.

In following the flow of my thoughts, I left the 1944 Hyderabad conference and briefly carried you from Beirut to Moscow, London, Paris and Cairo. But since the Beirut conference had to be mentioned in any case, this short detour need not seem entirely out of place.

After Hyderabad, I did not return home. Instead, I went to Mumbai, where I met Madhusudan, my friend from when I lived in Baradari Sher Afghan, who was now involved in films. In those days, many writers had moved to Mumbai and Pune to work in the industry. Shahid Lateef was at Bombay Talkies, and Krishan Chander and Josh Saheb were at Shalimar Pictures. I went to Pune for two days, where Malik Habeeb Ahmed, the father of my friend Naseemuz Zafar, was the manager of Shalimar Pictures.

I stayed with him in Pune. Through him, I met the owner of Shalimar Pictures, WZ Ahmed. He was a cultured and well-read man. He had seen my book Girdaab. At Shalimar Pictures, I also met Josh and Krishan Chander.

During our conversation, Ahmed Saheb asked me what I was doing. I told him, and he offered me a job for one hundred and fifty rupees a month. Although the offer was not very attractive, I accepted it given my financial difficulties in Aligarh. Ahmed Saheb added that my salary would be increased if he was pleased with my work, and I began working in the writing department of Shalimar Pictures.

I wrote to Mother saying that I had moved from Aligarh to Pune. A few days later, I received a letter in which she complained at length about Salma. I took a few days’ leave from Shalimar Pictures and went to Delhi. I wrote again to Mother, asking her to come to Delhi. Despite all her grievances against Salma, no one favoured a divorce.

My father was also in Delhi, but I did not consult him. Instead, I called Zahoor. I asked him if he was willing to marry Salma. He agreed, and so did Salma. I called a lawyer to prepare the divorce papers and left Salma with all her dowry, including her clothes and jewellery. She left with Zahoor for his house.

No one in my family, including my father, was pleased with my decision. Later, I heard that Salma’s family was unhappy because she went straight to Zahoor’s house instead of going to them.

Salma and Zahoor are no longer in this world. May god bless their souls!

Excerpted with permission from In This Live Desolation, Akhtarul Iman, translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht, Speaking Tiger Books.